


resistance is futile

by peltonea



Series: let the redeemed of the father tell their story [3]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Bunker Ending (Far Cry), Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Addiction, Pining, Post-Nuclear War, Religious Cults, Religious Fanaticism, Slow Burn, except not really i guess, excommunication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peltonea/pseuds/peltonea
Summary: "How long, Dep?" Nick Rye asks. He looks exhausted, eyes pink and swollen from crying for so long. "How long we gonna be stuck down here?"Rook doesn't answer immediately. He bites his lip. Shrugs. He doesn't know."Two thousand, five hundred, and fifty-five days," John says, quietly. "No, fifty-four days. The faithful will wait seven years, and then emerge into the New Eden."There's silence for a moment."Fuckthat," Jess Black snarls, standing up. "I ain't spendin' sevendayswith them Peggie creeps."(Or: A living ghost stalks the halls of the old Black Horse Silo during the Collapse. John Seed just wishes it weren't him.)Sequel toexcommunication is the new blackandwater of the womb.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Excommunication is the New Black. Unfortunately, this won't make much sense if you haven't read it. Yes, it's 35 chapters/86k. Yes, that was me restraining myself. Yes, I am very sorry. At least Water of the Womb isn't required reading (though it will hopefully make some things with Jacob, John and Joseph make a little more sense). 
> 
> First and foremost, although this is a fix-it/redemption series (sorry Jake, maybe next time), but there will be numerous references to and depictions of matters including (but not limited to) past drug addiction, past sex addiction, past child abuse, mind control/conditioning, severe depression, alcohol abuse, world-destroying nuclear warfare, and religious horror. Tags will be updated frequently, and I will post warnings on chapters where necessary. There will also be a sequel to this detailing the events of Far Cry New Dawn.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR THIS WORK TO BE HOSTED ON ANY SITE OTHER THAN AO3, FOR FREE. IF YOU ARE READING THIS ON A THIRD PARTY APP OR SITE, ESPECIALLY WHICH CHARGES A FEE OR OFFERS A SUBSCRIPTION, THE DEVELOPER DOES NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO PROFIT OFF MY WORK. PLEASE DO NOT SUPPORT THESE FRAUDS.

John splashes cool water on his face, leans heavily on the metal sink. Everything hurts.

He looks at his reflection in the mirror. The too-bright fluroescent lights make him look even paler, even more washed out than usual. There are a couple blossoming bruises around his left eye and his lip is split. His eyes are still Bliss-white, though his usual blue is starting to peek through and his pupils are starting to look a little more normal. He touches his split lip gingerly— the bleeding seems to have stopped for now. That’s a good sign, right?

John takes a couple sips of water from the tap, in a futile attempt to settle his stomach, to somehow wash the Bliss from his innards. A couple hours sleep, and maybe he’ll stop feeling so nauseous and dizzy. A couple hours sleep, and the sinners are going to be back to their usual awful selves, Deputy Rook included. That’s when things are going to get really bad. He needs to be back in his best form for then. He’ll find himself some coffee, prepare to argue himself hoarse. He can’t rely on the faithful and the Chosen to protect him— not right now. His words are his only weapons of self-defence.

John dries his face on the towel hanging by the sink, heads back into the dormitory. The sinners have sprawled themselves over the bunks, those that don’t fit in that limited space sitting against the wall. Someone— probably Burke— managed to calm Nick Rye enough to get him bundled into a blanket, sandwiched between those awful Drubman cousins, all three dead to the world.

Grace Armstrong looks like she’s about to pass out, but she’s propped herself against the wall near the door, clearly intending to play protector for the other sinners. There's an empty wooden chair on the other side of the room, but she clearly wants the tactical advantage of surprise.

It’s pointless: Joseph has decreed that the sinners should be welcomed, and so they shall be. But if Grace's paranoia distracts her from John, he welcomes it. He’s not useful any more. He needs any advantage he can get, lest the sinners turn on _him_. Now they’re stuck in such an enclosed space, there’s nowhere John can run if things go south. Grace’s eyes flicker to John briefly, and then she focuses on the floor in front of her, obviously redoubling her efforts to stay awake.

Hudson is unconscious, either from exhaustion or from medication. John wouldn’t be surprised if there were sedatives in the water the nurse gave her. She’s leaning on Whitehorse’s shoulder, the two of them on one of the bunks near the door. He’s gently stroking her arm, in the absent-minded manner of an anxious father. It’s a miracle he’d managed to pry Hudson off John before she did any _real_ damage.

John receives a small nod of acknowledgement from Whitehorse, which is more than the faithful of Eden’s Gate are wiling to give him right now. John nods back, stepping over Adelaide’s legs, sitting against a clear patch of wall that has clear line-of-sight to the door. 

There are a couple sinners who aren’t here— Deputy Rook, most obviously, though Jess and Lindsay are also gone. Pratt and Burke went with Rook, and the housewife— Tannie? Tallie?Whatever— is nowhere to be seen.

Rook should be back soon. It feels like it’s been days, but the clock above the door insists that barely one hour has passed since he left to speak to Joseph.

John already has a pretty good idea of what Joseph will ask: Rook, if nobody else, must be brought into Eden’s Gate. The other law enforcement officers will likely be forced to publicly apologise for their actions, face some minor kind of punishment for the sin of attempting to arrest the Father. The sinners will have to attempt to integrate themselves into the little society Joseph has built, keeping themselves just useful enough to appease the faithful.

If it were up to John, he’d insist that all the sinners went through a full Cleansing, Confession and Atonement. If it were up to John, he’d demand that the sinners should be imprisoned, for the safety of the saved, until they fully accepted the Word of the Father into their hearts. He knows these people, has learnt enough the last couple weeks to understand how most of them can be manipulated into doing the right thing. _John_ should be the one negotiating with them, not Joseph. _John_ should be the one to force Rook to bow his arrogant head.

John loves Joseph, he really does— but Joseph is _too_ good. He’s too perfect, if such a thing is possible. His kindness is unmatched, his love beyond all compare, his capacity for forgiveness endless for anybody who isn’t John. His leniency with the sinners is going to get somebody killed— probably Joseph himself, if not John too.

John leans back, resting his head against the wall. This would be so much easier if Joseph would just _talk_ to him. If he would acknowledge John as anything other than spiritually and physically dead. So far he hasn’t, but it’s only been a couple hours.

Joseph is stubborn— it might take days. Weeks, even— John _did_ publicly show doubt, after all. He doubted the Father, and he’d even said so, openly, in front of the sinners. He had dared to proclaim Joseph insane, said that his prophet needed psychiatric evaluation instead of strict obedience.

John is no fool. He knows he's overstepped a boundary with that. Jacob had never even believed in God most days, let alone in the Voice or the Collapse. But he’d still obeyed Joseph, even if he’d complained and objected in private, away from the prying eyes and ears of the faithful. Even on his worst days, Jacob would _never_ have publicly expressed doubt or disapproval of Joseph’s words or actions. And John— John _had_. He’d actually _said_...

John forces himself to breathe deeply. Everything will be fine. It has to be.

There’ll be another opportunity to be Cleansed and therefore reborn again. There _must_ be. Joseph has to be aware that John didn’t kill the men who’d been sent to save his soul. That he didn’t just abscond with the harbinger of their doom for reasons unknown. That everything that John did at Faith’s Gate was done out of duress (and it was, Rook or Pratt or somebody else would’ve found an excuse to kill him if he hadn’t).

A terrible thought occurs to John. Joseph’s always had a way of knowing John’s sins, even before he confessed them. He’d known of John’s deep abscesses of wrath and lust long before he’d ever accidentally shown them to his brothers. He’d figured out John’s addictions, how he’d been abused under the Duncan’s care. He might even already know about the tiny sliver of lust that’s wormed its way into John’s soul— and lust is _all_ it is. It isn’t John’s fault that Deputy Rook is handsome when he smiles, that he’s the only sinner in this stupid county that’s been consistently vouching for John’s survival. Rook’s muscles and his kind words don’t change the fact that his soul is stained with the blood of the countless faithful he’s slaughtered. It doesn’t change the fact that he is a fundamentally _evil_ person, the worst of the worst.

John laces his fingers together, clasps his hands so tightly together that his joints and knuckles ache. Joseph might see that tiny, barely-there sliver of lust and believe _that’s_ why John started to doubt. He might believe that John willingly betrayed everything he’s ever loved for the chance to get his dick wet. It wouldn’t be the first time John’s done that, after all. But that had been a long time ago, before the therapy, and it hadn’t even been a big betrayal— missing a couple family dinners, a couple sermons and church meetings. Things that had been big at the time but could never, ever compare to the entirely hypothetical, entirely indelible sin of sleeping with the harbinger of the Collapse, the person who murdered Jacob and took away their protector.

John squeezes his eyes shut, praying desperately that God will let Joseph see the truth. If Joseph thinks— if he thinks that John has fallen that far, then there won’t be any hope at all. Joseph would never willingly let a snake like that into New Eden. Not even if that snake wears the face of his beloved baby brother.

Oh, God. Anything but that. _Please_.

So loud is the beating of John’s heart inside his ears, so wholly devoted is he to his prayers, so lost is he in the terrible fear threatening to overwhelm him, that John doesn’t hear the footsteps returning to this room.

“Rookie,” Whitehorse croaks, and John’s yanked firmly back to reality, his heart beating too-fast, his lungs struggling to take in enough air.

Deputy Rook stands in the doorway, gently swaying. Pratt steps around him, looks at John for a few long moments before standing near the bunk with Whitehorse and Hudson, his arms crossed. Burke stops beside Rook, clearly frustrated at the current situation.

“We talked to Joseph,” Burke says, as Whitehorse pats the bunk beside him, gesturing for Rook to join him.

“And?” John presses. He needs to know what Joseph said. Did Joseph say anything about him? He probably wouldn't, but if he had, John _needed_ to know.

Rook takes an unsteady step forward, and almost immediately stops. His eyes flicker over the rest of the dimly-lit room, the sleeping sinners strewn on every available surface. His mouth quivers a little.

“I, uh,” he starts, and his voice is just as unsteady as the rest of him. A trembling hand comes up to his mouth, and he blinks rapidly. “I want to wake up.”

Burke puts a heavy hand on Rook’s shoulder, looking solemn. Pratt merely crosses his arms, watching Rook start to unravel with cold, disinterested eyes.

“This is a nightmare,” Rook manages, his voice cracking. “I don’t… I just—“

Rook shakes his head, helplessly, and there’s a tear dripping down his face. Burke pushes him, firmly but not unkindly, in the direction of the bunk, and Rook staggers over, joining Whitehorse with a soft thump.

“I want to wake up,” he says. Then he lowers his head into his hands, starts weeping softly. Whitehorse looks very sad, settles one hand on Rook’s shoulder.

“What did my brother say?” John demands. What on earth could Joseph have said to provoke that reaction?

“Why do you care?” Pratt sneers. “Why are you even here? You got what you wanted. Now we're all rats in a cage.”

There’s no way that Pratt hasn’t seen the way that the saved are politely ignoring John’s existence. The way the nurses wouldn’t answer his queries, the way that Joseph brushed him off, the way that the Chosen talked about all three Heralds being unfortunately deceased. He knows exactly why John's still here, and he'll never stop goading until John cracks and admits how far he's fallen. Well, he _won't_. He won't give Pratt the satisfaction.

“Curiosity,” John hisses, but he doesn’t say anything else. There’s no point. He won’t get a straight answer until Rook stops crying, which probably won’t happen until he actually _sleeps_ — how long has it been since he got more than a snatched hour here and there? Days? Weeks?

It doesn’t matter, John decides. Nothing matters, not if the Gates of Eden are still closed to him. He’ll have to find a way to get them open again.

Burke shakes his head.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he says, before crossing the room, settling himself on the plain, wooden chair in the corner. Pratt stays where he is, glaring at John.

It’s going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the really long delay- my first draft of this chapter simply wasn’t working and then I ended up working away from home in a temporary job with very long hours. The next instalments will be posted in much better time, I promise! I’m aiming for at least one update a week. Thank you for your patience. :)

The hours pass painfully slowly. Deputy Rook manages to cry himself into a light, restless sleep. It’s pathetic. Completely unlike the strong, stern monster that has spent the last couple months systematically reducing everything John loved to ash.

Pratt stretches himself out near Grace Armstrong, taking his attention off John. Doctor Lindsay reappears at one point, clearly exhausted, and heads over to check on Nick Rye.

John eventually falls asleep. It’s the light kind of sleep that barely counts as such, something between actual rest and wakefulness, a drowsy detachment from reality that weighs down his limbs and eyelids. Sounds wash over him, low voices and footsteps and someone softly weeping.

It’s the kind of sleep that simultaneously feels like centuries and seconds.

John’s head suddenly snaps to the right, a strange numb feeling on his left cheekbone. He cracks his eyes open: a green-clad man crouches before him, brown eyes narrowed in hatred, the weird numb sensation giving way to a burning pain that makes John’s eyes water.

“Stace, enough,” a familiar voice croaks. Deputy Pratt rises, stepping out of John’s field of vision. Deputy Rook looks unhappy, shaking his head. “Jesus.”

John presses a cool hand to his cheek— it provides little relief, comes away bloodless. Then...

“Jesus can’t save us now,” Pratt snarls.

“Killing John won’t save us either,” Burke says, from out of view, and there’s an indistinct, unhappy murmuring. There are more sinners here, all awake, all unhappy. It doesn’t matter, though. No, it doesn’t matter because Pratt is fucking _dead_. John turns his head to look at him, glaring down at John from a nearby bunk. How _dare_ he? How dare he lay hands on a Herald of the Father?

“You slapped me,” John says, accusingly. “Who the hell do you think you are, you insignificant piece of _shit_?“

The effect is immediate: the sinner’s irrational fury quickly stoked. Someone grips John’s shoulder, fingers twisting in the linen of his suit. Hudson, on a bunk near Rook, rises— her pretty face is white, twisted in rage.

“Don’t talk to him like that!” one of the sinners snarls.

” _You’re_ an insignificant piece of shit!” another shouts.

“Enough!” Rook’s voice is loud enough to drown out some of the sinners. The hand on John's shoulder withdraws. “Jesus _Christ_ , everybody! Can’t you see he’s trying to rile us up?”

“I’m not riling anybody up, I’m legitimately angry,” John spits each word with venom.

“Pratt shouldn’t have hit you,” Rook says, irritatingly calm. “But _you_ shouldn’t have locked us down here with the Peggies.”

“Excuse me?” John can’t help but let out a short, bitter laugh. “You’d rather die out there? In the Collapse?”

Rook shakes his head. His lips are pressed together in disappointment or fury. Whitehorse has a similar expression, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. Jess Black is glaring daggers at John— if looks could kill, he’d be several kinds of dead.

“You said yourself, when we were driving up. There was no fire, no birds falling out of the sky, no nukes,” Rook says, eventually. He looks very serious now, arms crossed, head tilted to one side. “I think you took advantage of the Bliss and you tricked us into fleeing down here, even though there isn’t any danger.”

“Isn’t any danger…” John echoes. “Are you insane? You think I’d rather be stuck down here, with you of all people, than enjoying life up there while it lasts?”

“I think you’d do anything to please Joseph,” Rook says, without missing a beat.

“I would,” John admits. 

That’s not a secret— Joseph is the most important person in the world. He is the prophet of God, and he is the Father of New Eden and— above all— he is John’s flesh and blood. His only remaining family. And if John could only figure out how to make Joseph love him again, he’d do whatever it took in a heartbeat.

“But,” John continues, “I wouldn’t willingly spend the apocalypse stuck a hundred feet underground with a _murderer_ for company.”

Rook’s mouth twitches, and he closes his eyes. He gives a small nod, takes a deep breath, and—

“That wasn’t murder, it was self-defence! The Peggies have been trying to kill all of us!And even if they weren’t, your brother was a sick, evil bastard, and the world is better off without him!” the round-faced teenager with the braids pops into view. His face is red, lip wobbling in mingled rage and fear, his hands balled into angry fists. “He was a tyrant and a murderer and— and a complete _douchebag_!”

John’s heart stops for a moment. A cold, heavy ball of rage sits in his stomach, weighing his soul down with wrath. The distant, calculating kind of rage stoked by an unimaginable offence. Oh, the sinners can insult John all they want— that’s okay, he can take it, give as good as he gets. But _Jacob_?No.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” he says, because if he doesn’t he’s going to _kill_ this stupid, senseless little boy with his bare hands, the Father and Rook and John’s immediate survival be _damned_.

“It’s true!” the teenager insists. “He tortured and killed so many people! He killed _Eli_!”

Lies. Jacob was a good man. Fair-minded and honourable, he only ever acted as he felt necessary. And now that he’s dead, that he’s no longer here to defend himself, these sinners are besmirching his name, his good character. John swallows, clenches his fists, fights the urge to throttle what’s-his-name right here, right now. John won’t let this level of disrespect stand, no— but at the same time, he can’t act immediately. Oh, the sinners will see the errors of their ways eventually. They’ll understand how wrong they are. He’ll make sure of it. He’ll teach them in the most efficient way he knows how: with knives and thumb-screws and branding irons and _pain_.

It’s good that Eli Palmer is dead, though. He’d been such a thorn in the Project’s side with his militia, his betrayal of Jacob’s friendship an unspeakable sin.

“I killed Eli, actually,” Rook says, quietly. His head is lowered, eyes fixed to the floor.

“Because he _made_ you!” the teenager shouts, hysterical in his self-delusion.

“I still did it, though,” Rook says, and he doesn’t allow any room for an argument. He rises, and crouches before John. Up close, John can see how pink his eyes are, that they’re slightly swollen still. He can smell Rook’s stale sweat, see the mud and dried blood splattered over his uniform, how his hands are trembling slightly.

Rook doesn’t say anything for a moment. He considers his words carefully, before wetting his lips to speak.

“It’s not too late to do the right thing,” Rook says, calmly, evenly. “You did it at the church, helping me and the others as you did. Trying to talk Joseph down. When the National Guard come, you could still walk free. All you need to do is help us out again. Help us get out of here, without hurting anybody else. You have the keys and the codes and you know the blueprints off by heart.”

John blinks.

What?

“Help me save these people,” Rook adds, gesturing to the sinners surrounding them.

John shakes his head in disbelief. Rook hasn’t listened to a goddamn thing he’s said this whole time. Of _course_ he wouldn’t— he’s already decided that John is evil and that he’s a monster and that he needs to be put down, just like his brother. What _bullshit_.

“No,” John says. “Of course not. Are you _insane_?”

“I told you he wouldn’t help,” Hudson hisses, and the sinners start talking again, arguing amongst themselves. John catches a few of their words: “them or us” and “kill him”, spots Boshaw reaching for a baseball bat that really shouldn’t have been allowed into the dormitory in the first place. God— did the Chosen merely divest the sinners of their guns, not bothering to check for anything else? If so, Jess Black is probably carrying more knives than an entire restaurant on her person. He ought to fire all the Chosen for that level of incompetence, and if the Collapse weren’t imminent, he probably would.

“Why?” Rook asks, brows furrowed, clearly frustrated. His apparently-endless patience has a limit, it seems.

“Because I’ve already saved you all,” John replies. He can’t make it any clearer to these fools that they’re better off down here. He can’t explain any more because they won’t listen.

“Saved us from what?” Rook demands. “The Collapse isn’t _happening_!”

And then— divine intervention.

As John opens his mouth to reply, there’s a low rumbling noise. It’s low, but _loud_ , drowning out all sound for a moment, vibrations reverberating through the floor and the walls. It only lasts a few seconds, but John knows _exactly_ what it was.

The first nukes have dropped. Probably not in Hope County, but they've dropped and they're close. Definitely within Montana, at any rate.

John smiles, at the confusion on Rook’s face.

“That,” John says, and the confusion on Rook’s face turns to horror.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, full disclosure: the original draft had John preparing coffee and goodwill snacks for the sinners, but for whatever reason it wouldn’t fit with the rest of the chapter. i scrapped the whole thing and put in some action instead. that’s why this one is late. I’ll figure out a way to get the coffee thing in a later chapter, because I really like the snippet I wrote. 
> 
> i don't like this chapter very much, but it gets the plot going a little further. i expect that i'll come back and rewrite it eventually.

Deputy Rook’s mouth falls open in disbelief, his black-brown eyes darting up to the ceiling. The sinners have fallen silent, each one wide-eyed, clearly enraptured by the fulfilment of Joseph’s Word. John could almost weep for joy— after all their hardships, after all their troubles, Joseph’s prophecies have finally come to pass and, though Jacob is no longer with them, the extended family of the faithful will march through Eden’s Gate. They will emerge into the New Eden. Everything will be all right— or close to it, anyway.

“No,” Rook says, his voice cracking, sounding oddly small in the silence.

There’s another rumble, this one less overwhelming. Could be as far away as Missoula, or maybe even Helena.

“ _Yes_ ,” John says, and he smiles wide. He very carefully does _not_ think about how he doubted Joseph, about how he dared to openly question the Father. All that matters is that Joseph was right, and the sinners were wrong and now they will see the light.

Hudson, who’s been staring at the ceiling, strangely quiet, starts to laugh. It’s not a pleasant laugh by any means. It starts off as a low chuckle of disbelief, then segues quickly into the hysterical laughter of mingled grief and fear. Deputy Rook takes one step back, and John can see the panic coursing through his body, the way he’s opening and closing his fists, the way his breathing’s just turned shallow, the way his skin has gone ashen, a couple shades paler than its usual healthy brown.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…” Jeffries’ voice cuts through the laughter. John glances over— the pastor has his hands clasped and eyes closed, and, irritatingly, some of the sinners follow his lead. Mary-May bows her head, mouthing the words, Nick Rye buries his face in his hands, and even that damned Pratt plays along, playing lip service.

Deputy Rook takes a step back, and he’s visibly swaying, his hands trembling. John wonders, briefly, exactly what is going through his head. It must be a difficult thing, to have one’s beliefs so swiftly torn away.

“Hey,” Whitehorse says, clearly doing his best to stay calm. He does a good job, only a minute tremor and the shock on his face betraying his feelings. “Why don’t you sit down, Rook?”

“No, I—“ Rook starts, and he stops, sounding choked. Bites his lip, looks at the door. “I— I have to—“

And then Rook is gone, vanishing through the doorway before John can stop him. John curses, forces himself to his feet, and follows him.

John dashes into the hall, and Rook’s just about visible, turning the corner that leads to the entrance hall. He’s heading to the doors, then. Shit.

John still has his key hanging around his neck, but it’s not necessary for unlocking the main doors from the inside. No, there aren’t any special keys for that— something that the sinners don’t seem to have realised yet, but surely will at some point. If Rook gets up to the doors, he could easily override the lockdown with just a couple switches and a lever.

John can’t let that happen.

John silently curses himself. His fitness regime has been screwed up lately. Once the Reaping started, he had much less time to devote to his usual workout sessions, and during his unwilling incarceration at the hands of Rook, he’d had no chance at all to exercise. He's still healthy, but he’s not as fast as he used to be. 

Someone is screaming, somewhere deep in the bunker, but they’re nearly drowned out by the muffled, far-away sound of the faithful singing and praying in the chapel. Presumably, Joseph left the door open, in hopes that the sinners might be enticed to join them. Doesn’t matter, not right now.

There’s another rumble, another blast miles away. John can’t help but wonder as he runs, lungs starting to ache— is Atlanta still standing? How about Washington, DC? The rest of the world? London? Pyongyang? Moscow? Is it all gone, or just America?

The obstacles in the entrance hall hinder Rook a little— where John dodges between the crates and shelves easily, Rook seems too shaken up to manage that. He pushes past a shelving unit, sending the assorted contents crashing to the floor. John side-steps the mess, kicking a couple cans to the other side of the room.

Rook slows as he ascends the stairs, exhaustion taking its toll. It’s been a long day for them all, John thinks, and wills himself to push a little further, to ignore the burning in his lungs and his limbs. He’s close— just a couple steps _closer_ and he’ll be able to stop Rook from destroying everything.

Rook reaches the landing, staggers toward the door, pausing at the window. He lets out a low, pained moan, and takes a step back— his legs seem to just give way underneath him, leaving him awkwardly sprawled against the railings, covering his face with his hands as John approaches.

John glances out of the window— a small rectangle of custom-made, leaded glass. It’s enough to block the worst of whatever is outside, though it’s probably best to activate the shutters if they’re going to be up here for long. Which they might, because Rook starts crying: pathetic, high-pitched sobbing.

It doesn’t take long to realise what’s gotten Rook so distraught: there’s a mushroom cloud just barely visible past the mountains encircling the southern parts of Holland Valley.

There are heavy footsteps on the stairs, then loud, irregular breaths that almost drown out Rook’s disgusting display of self-pity.

“Rookie, what’re you—“ Whitehorse begins, taking a couple shaky steps toward Rook. He pauses, catching sight of the clouds outside. “Damn…”

John quickly flips the lever that controls the shutters, closing them against the radiation. Whitehorse kneels next to Rook, placing one hand on his shuddering shoulder. Rook flinches, and there’s another rumble. Another blast somewhere, but this one sounds much further away than the previous ones.

“He was right,” Rook chokes out, between pathetic gasps for breath. He sniffles, wetly. “Joseph— he was right. He… oh, _God_ …”

“We’ll figure something out. It’ll all be okay,” Whitehorse promises, even though he can’t possibly know that.

“Uh-uh,” Rook shakes his head, scrubbing at his eyes and nose with the cuff of his shirt.“I— he said I have to convert, and— and I don’t—“

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” Whitehorse says, firmly. “We’re all in this together. We’re going to be fine.”

“No,” Rook chokes again, but this time he manages to suck in a deep breath, just barely regaining control of himself. “No, it— it won’t be. But I won’t…” another deep breath “I won’t let him get the rest of you. You’ll be okay. I swear."

John rolls his eyes. Again, they’re behaving as though Joseph is insane, or cruel. And, admittedly, Joseph can be erratic. And he’s stubborn. But Rook has no need to be afraid. The Father is forgiving. If Rook sees the light, he’ll be treated with nothing but kindness and compassion, welcomed into the Project as though he’d done nothing. The same goes for the other sinners: all they need to do is submit to the Father, and they’ll be perfectly all right.

It’s such a typically Joseph thing to do: extend the hand of forgiveness to the worst, those who are most unworthy of His grace. Jacob would have thrown a fit, had he been here to protest about it. But he isn’t here, and so he can’t complain, or turn Joseph to more fruitful pursuits, and so _John_ must be the one to protect Joseph from the sinners. And the first and most logical step for that will be to make sure that they obey the Father, whether they want to or not.

This might require a softer approach. Rook is the most important sinner, their leader. He needs to be drawn into the fold of Eden’s Gate, and it sounds like he’s preparing to do just that— albeit unwillingly. All John needs to do is twist that unwillingness into willingness, make Rook _enjoy_ being part of the Father’s flock, and the others will fall into line easily. And then Joseph, seeing John’s changed ways, might be willing to acknowledge John once again. He might once more baptise John into new life, into the faith.

John crouches next to Rook, places one hand gently over his free shoulder, clasping the other around his forearm. Rook clearly isn’t expecting that, glancing up as though startled. There’s yet another rumble, this one sounding louder.

“It’s difficult, isn’t it?” John asks, quietly. “Knowing that everybody out there is doomed.”

Rook looks lost for a moment, before hesitantly nodding. Whitehorse doesn’t say a word, merely narrowing his eyes.

“Whether you like it or not, all we have is each other now,” John says, softly. He looks straight into Rook’s red-rimmed eyes. “I promise, no harm will come to you or to your allies. But you must work with us. Otherwise, we all perish.”

Rook doesn’t say anything, just gazes back warily. His jaw is tight, like he wants to say something, but can’t quite bring himself to.

“Come on,” John urges, slowly rising from his crouch, lifting Rook’s forearm as he goes. Rook seems to get the message, forcing himself to his feet before brushing John’s hands away.

“We need to talk to the others,” Whitehorse says. “Figure how things are going to go from here on out.”

“An excellent suggestion,” John agrees. “I’ll meet you at the dormitory shortly.”

Whitehorse looks at John, clearly suspicious, but he nods anyway. John watches Rook and Whitehorse make their way, slowly, down the stairs before turning his attention to the door controls. It’s unlikely that a sinner would know how to open the doors from the inside, especially considering that there are no instructions up here. But there are instructions filed away in John’s office, and they could quite easily be found by a particularly intelligent sinner. He’ll have to file them elsewhere— in the accounting books or something.

A good plan. John does just that, hiding the instructions in a ring-binder labelled LOGISTICS: FABRIC 2014-2015. That was the year he’d bought several wooden looms, for after the apocalypse, housing them in a small bunker underneath Gethsemane Greenhouse. The Bliss crop was engineered excellently— the plant fibres can apparently be used for thread and rope, much like hemp. Rachel, though many other things besides, is undoubtedly a botanic genius.

When John emerges, faint praying and singing can still be heard, echoing down the halls from the chapel. John can’t help but hum to himself as he walks down the hallways, a spring in his step. He’s got a real plan now, to keep everybody down here alive, and he’ll probably even get back in Joseph’s good books too.

John slows as he approaches the door, a heavy silence in the room beyond. He stands in the doorway, careful to assess the situation before intervening.

The sinners— all of them now— are still scattered around the room. Each one looks defeated and miserable, Hudson especially so. Still, at least she’s stopped screaming. Even that old hag, Adelaide, can’t seem to keep a smile on her face when confronted with the knowledge that she was wrong all along.

Rook is the only one standing, leaning awkwardly against the wall behind him, arms crossed. He looks miserable, but that’s nothing new. He barely flinches when another rumble reverberates through the bunker.

"How long, Dep?" Nick Rye asks. He looks exhausted, eyes pink and swollen from crying for so long. "How long we gonna be stuck down here?"

Rook doesn't answer immediately. He bites his lip. Shrugs. He doesn't know.

"Two thousand, five hundred, and fifty-five days," John says, quietly. "No, fifty-four days. The faithful will wait seven years, and then emerge into the New Eden."

There's silence for a moment.

"Fuck that," Jess Black snarls, standing up. "I ain't spendin' seven  _days_  with them Peggie creeps."

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Rook says, and— surprisingly— that’s all it takes. The rising ire in the room is more or less instantly quelled. Jess settles back down, though she’s got an angry scowl twisted over her face. So the sinners aren't as stupid as they appear, just horribly stubborn.

“The hell are _you_ doing here, anyway?” Hudson hisses, glaring at John through swollen eyes. "Come to drag us to your little torture chamber?"

“Of course not. Aren’t I _allowed_ to care about those I’ve saved?” John asks, in mock-surprise.

“Ain’t nobody here asked to be saved,” Nick Rye croaks, not looking up from the floor.

“Oughta kill you where you stand,” Jess Black hisses, rising from her crouch, hands curling into fists. Grace Armstrong’s hand on her shoulder looks to be the only thing stopping her from attempting to tear out John’s throat bare-handed.

“Now, hold on just a second…” Whitehorse begins, stepping forward. “Everybody calm down…”

“Calm?!” Hudson screeches, almost hysterical. “How in the hell can you ask me to be _calm_? He locked us down here! We’re _fucked_!”

“Coulda let us go back to the Wolf’s Den,” the barely-adult man with the braids mutters, glaring at John from his place on a nearby bunk. “Didn’t have to lock us down here with you freaks.”

“Enough!” Burke snaps, clapping his hands loudly. “Everybody, shut your mouth. We’ve got to figure this out, and we’ll do it faster if we’re not constantly interrupting everybody else.”

Oddly enough, Burke’s intervention works. The room does fall silent, at least for a moment. John didn’t think Burke had enough clout for that.

“ _You’re_ interrupting everybody else,” Boshaw mutters, barely audible. Burke rolls his eyes, glaring at Boshaw, but he doesn't do anything else.

Rook sighs, pressing his mouth into a thin line before he speaks again.

"I'm being Cleansed tomorrow," he says. "Joseph is doing it himself. Said that was his condition for not turning us out into the Collapse. And then after that… I get to go through all the other stuff. The Confession, Atonement… everything.”

“Joseph?” Jeffries looks up, brow creased in surprise. He glances at John. “ _Joseph_ is doing your…?”

“It’s because you’re the most unclean,” John says, and it’s not entirely a lie. It's partially true, at any rate. Rook is the most unclean of the sinners. “Joseph wants to personally welcome you into Eden’s Gate.”

Pratt scoffs. 

“Cut the shit,” he says. “You think I didn’t overhear every fucking phone-call Jacob took? You think we don’t know what’s going on here?”

John’s heart stops for a moment. Damn. He'd almost forgotten how obvious it must be to Pratt. 

“What are you talking about?” Rook asks, sounding irritated. Pratt leans forward, a cruel smirk on his lips. He points at John, a sadistic glee sparkling in his eyes.

“He cut you off, didn’t he?” Pratt asks. “You’re in Joseph’s bad books, and he’s cut you off and that’s why you’re hanging around with us sinners, because you can’t get your followers to wait on you hand and foot. Drowning and torturing people is _your_ job. It’s _always_ been your job. If Joseph is doing it instead of you, it’s because you fucked up so bad he can’t even stand the sight of you.”

John blinks. He opens his mouth, but he doesn’t even know where he could _start_ refuting that, start deflecting and subverting, because it’s true. He can't admit it, of course, but... damn it all! John is going to kill Pratt. Not now, of course, but soon. Slowly and painfully and when he least expects it.

“Oh?” Whitehorse looks thoughtful. “That right?”

“Joseph might be angry now,” John says, trying to sound more calm, confident and self-assured than he feels. “But he’ll soon get over his rage. He always does.”

“Is that what you think?” Mary-May asks, barely stifling a laugh. “Maybe Joseph finally saw you for what you are: a completely irredeemable piece of _shit_.”

John scowls. He didn’t come here to be mocked. Didn’t come here to have his flaws exposed, not by these worthless _sinners_.

“The Father always forgives,” John says, in lieu of actually rebutting her. She’s wrong. Joseph promised that they were a family, that they would be together forever, and Joseph is many things but never a liar. Everything will be fine.

“The Father is an evil, lying _asshole_!” Hudson snarls, voice hoarse from her hysterics, and then everybody else starts shouting too. It’s loud, too loud.

This time, it’s not Burke or Rook that demands silence. The speakers installed in each room crackle ominously, and Joseph’s voice rings out, cutting through the cacophony with ease. 

“My children… the Collapse is upon us,” the Father says, calmly. “This is a difficult time for us all, but it is one we all must endure. You are all welcome to join me in praying for our new world, for the Eden that is to come. But before that… please, break bread with me, with your brothers and sisters. Fill your heart with my Word just as you fill your stomach. Nourish your body and your soul.”

The speakers click off, and then there’s nothing. 

“Was that a weird-ass call to dinner?” a reedy little voice calls. Drubman Jr, John thinks, spotting his pudgy arm waving in the air. “Uh. ‘Cause I will admit, I’m feelin’ mighty hungry right about now…”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not entirely happy with this one, but I figured i’d better post it and then I can come back and edit it later.

The sinners argue amongst each other, as they are wont to do. They’re so loud, they almost drown out the sounds of the explosions.

“You’re kidding, right?” someone calls. “We can’t trust them!” 

“What are we going to do, starve to death? We don’t have a choice. We have to play along.”

“No,” Hudson cries, again. Doesn’t she ever shut up? “No, not a chance in Hell!”

“We should kill them,” Jess Black says, something urgent, slightly hysteric in her voice. “If we strike now, we can surprise them.”

“There’s too many of them,” Mary-May shakes her head, mournfully. “Too few of us... we’re trapped.” 

The cacophony rises ever higher. Each sinner has a different opinion, and everybody wants to be right. They shout and spit and snarl, constantly interrupting and talking over each other— they’ll never come to a conclusion like this. Honestly. John wonders why he bothers sometimes. 

“Violence isn’t the answer,” Jeffries says, and the noise abates ever-so slightly as he lifts his head from his prayers. Even here, even now, the sinners respect him. “The time for that has passed. Now we have to survive.” 

“Ain’t no point in surviving...” Nick Rye whispers, voice starting to turn a little hoarse. There’s immediately a hand on his shoulder, a hush in the air as— yet again, how selfish, how _irritating_ — Nick starts to weep, burying his face in his hands. 

“No,” Rook says, and then he stops.

One moment passes, then two. Rook rubs his eyes, and tries again. 

“We have to keep going,” Rook says. He sounds so small, so unsure, so pitiful. A far cry from the daunting, level-headed leader he’d been just hours ago. “Even if it’s hard, we have to— we can’t just give up.”

“There’s nothing left out there...” someone murmurs. 

“There might be something,” Rook insists. “We— we just have to stay alive long enough to see it.”

There’s quiet for a moment, punctuated only by a low rumble, a far-off explosion.

“As long as we’re alive, there’s hope,” Burke says. John blinks. How unexpected: Burke acting on his own initiative, instead of following orders like some broken marionette.

“Hope County lives as long as we do,” Whitehorse adds, fixing Rook with a steady gaze and a small nod.Clearly bolstered by the show of support, Rook continues. “We’re not beat yet.”

“I’m not saying we have to— to join them, but...” Rook pauses. “I mean, I guess _I_ have to join...” 

Rook trails off, mouth tight.

“You’re really shit at this, you know that?” Pratt says, still leaning on the wall like some teenage delinquent. There’s no humour in his tone. Only cold, efficient truth— or whatever passes for that in Pratt’s mind. Pratt crosses his arms and addresses the room, before the sinners can start arguing again.

“So what if Joseph was right? So what if the world’s being destroyed by nuclear bombs? Once the fallout’s gone, we can get the fuck out of here. Rebuild what we can, and sacrifice what we can’t. We’ll train, and we’ll plan, and we’ll hunt those Peggie bastards down. Make them pay for what they did to us. What they’re doing to us. But we need to live to make that happen. And right now, living means sucking up and going through the motions until we can get the upper hand. It means subterfuge.” 

“I’d rather die than join them!” Jess spits. “I don’t care if it’s fake, I ain’t—“

“Then die,” Pratt interrupts her, completely nonchalantly. “But you’ll be missing out on killing Joseph.” 

Rook looks like he wants to argue with that, but he doesn’t. Coward. His earlier insistence on the sanctity of life seems to have vanished. The _hypocrite_. 

“You don’t know what they’ve done! You don’t know what they’re like!” Jess protests, too lost in her own prejudice to think. How pathetic, John thinks. 

Pratt crosses the room in a couple long steps. He digs his fingers into Jess’s hood, before anybody can move to stop him, leans down to snarl in her face. 

“Don’t tell me I don’t know what they’re like!” Pratt shouts, his face twisted in rage. “ _You_ don’t know what it was like— you never had to go through training, you never had to run the trials, you never had to eat off the floor or kill your friends or lick the dirt off Jacob’s boots!” 

John frowns. This is the first time he’s seen Pratt angry. The first time he’s shown any real emotion since... well, since their failed arrest, the catalyst of the Reaping. Unless one were to count his crocodile tears, back at the Ranch, or the way he’d laughed after assaulting John. Which John doesn’t— they weren’t indicators of emotion, but manipulation. 

Rook and Burke are the first to reach Pratt, struggling to separate him from Jess. John considers, for a moment, helping them. 

Probably not worth it, he decides. The sinners are more likely to kill John than to thank him for his efforts. 

It soon becomes apparrent that John’s help is not necessary. More sinners try to assist: Whitehorse, Drubman Jr, Jeffries, Grace Armstrong... it soon becomes too many to count, to keep track of in the chaos. Pratt’s still yelling, Jess screaming in protest or fear, the sinners attempting to separate them joining the racket. 

John glances at the door. He’s tired,damn it. He’s hungry. As much as he’d like to go to the cafeteria, to join his brothers and sisters in faith, he’s all too aware that it would end badly. Another reminder of how far he’s fallen. He’ll go to the kitchens later, take leftovers and eat where he can’t be seen by the faithful. 

John’s lip curls, involuntarily. Sorrow and shame weighs his stomach down. God, how has he come to stoop so low? 

John takes a deep breath, to calm himself. 

Joseph is right to be angry. John doubted him and his divine glory. All John needs to do is prove his love and loyalty to the Father, to show his love and mercy for the sinners. And that means finding a place for them here, even if they don’t want it. He’ll need to arrange beds and work and studies for each of them— if he leaves the plans in his office, sticks them to this dormitory’s door, then his lieutenants should follow them. 

...who are his lieutenants, anyway? Grant is dead, and with him, the most loyal and dedicated of John’s men. 

Thomas might be the highest-ranking Chosen living. He’d been third-in-command at Stone Ridge Chalet, and John’s fairly sure that he was sent here after Rook demolished the Chalet. Deborah is probably the most important of Faith’s lackeys, though she’s also probably somewhere in Faith’s Gate, assuming they were able to lock down the defences in time. But of John’s people... 

John had a couple secretaries, before the Reaping, but they’re almost certainly dead now. The most important Chosen gifted to him, Jebediah and Miriam, are dead, too. Peter might still be alive, but his speciality has always been in numbers and logistics, not actually running things. Grant, the most capable of John’s subordinates, is, obviously, dead. 

Who does that leave? 

John isn’t sure. He shakes his head, rises quietly and slinks out of the room, the sinners preoccupied with preventing Pratt and Jess killing one another. 

John heads down the hall. There are sixteen sinners in all. Five law enforcement officers, six trigger-happy fools, and five of the failed Resistance leaders: the two from the Whitetails, plus Mary-May and Jerome, and that useless wet napkin, Doctor Lindsay. Six women, ten men. Each of the smaller dorms will house approximately twelve people. Two dorms will be fine. He’ll need to assign the rooms— the dorm the sinners are currently occupying, and the one next door. Split them according to gender, as is the custom of most organisations outside of Eden’s Gate, and therefore will be more comfortable for the sinners. It’s not likely to do much to keep the sinners from, well, sinning, considering that Deputy Rook and Doctor Lindsay are both gay— the thought leaves a bad taste in John’s mouth. Come to think of it, John’s heard rumours about Boshaw’s peculiar interests, and Jess and Hudson too. 

John finally reaches his office, pours himself a generous measure of fine whiskey as he notes down the dorm arrangements, both in his official paperwork (arranged neatly on his desk) and on signs to be stuck to the doors. He’ll find some linens, too. Some toothbrushes and soap, a few towels. There will be some spare prayer-books, Books of Joseph, and clean clothes. He’ll arrange them on the beds while the sinners are at dinner. And then, in the morning, he’ll do his best to prepare Deputy Rook for his Confession. 

John signs the papers with a flourish, and fishes in his filing cabinet for the other forms that need to be filled for each bunker resident: medical history, allergies, sins, previous studies, skills and qualifications. Assuming that the sinners stop trying to kill each other and come to some sort of agreement, he’ll give them the forms after breakfast so that they can do something while John supervises the Confession. 

Yes, John thinks, carefully sliding a paperclip onto each sheaf. It’s a good start. Once he’s got the relevant information, he can slot each sinner into a work and study schedule, carefully separated from the others for most of the day, to make it easier for them to see the truth behind Joseph’s Word, the day-to-day realities of Eden’s Gate. 

They’ll see soon enough. Some will take longer than others, of course, but they won’t be able to delude themselves indefinitely. 

John will make sure of that. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so, funny story, guys...
> 
> it turns out that i am very bad at keeping schedules, and also that moving halfway around the world is not conductive to said schedule-keeping
> 
> ANYWAY, i'm back and i'm on a roll again and i'm not planning on moving halfway around the world again for at least another ten or so months, so expect much more frequent updates! 
> 
> My fic writing has been so slow since I moved, I honestly expected to finish this in December. But fortunately (for me, at least), I was able to finish it early. So here you are: thank you for your patience. I hope you enjoy what's to come.

The chapel is full.

No, that’s not true. There are hundreds of empty seats here. But everybody in the bunker is present. Each member of Joseph’s flock, each Chosen, each sinner, and of course Joseph himself, standing next to the baptismal font. It’s already full of water, and, if the faint chemical-floral smell is any indication, Bliss as well.

Rook himself sits in the centre of the front pew, surrounded by Chosen and his friends, looking thoroughly miserable. He’s dressed in his uniform, still wrinkled and dirty from the previous days events. The other sinners are also still in their filthy rags. Still unwilling to accept their place. That’ll change soon enough.

“Brothers and sisters,” Joseph proclaims triumphantly, “we stand here today to witness a miracle. The Lord has sent us a terrible sinner to welcome into our fold. I’m sure you know him— the worst of the very worst this world has to offer.”

There’s a rising murmur of agreement amongst the congregation, and John nods his head. Yes. Rook is the worst. Joseph waits for a moment, then continues.

“This _monster_ is the embodiment of sin itself. He is utterly consumed by wrath— each and every one of you has witnessed how he slaughters and butchers anybody who disagrees with him, who stands in his way. And I’m sure you all know by now the terrible things he has done to each of our beloved heralds… Jacob, our protector… Faith, our inspiration… and John, our baptist… all gone. He is greedy and gluttonous, stealing much-needed supplies from our people. He is envious, seeking to destroy the Father’s image in order to replace it with his own. He proudly proclaims his own sloth and lust, basking in them as though they were sunlight. And worst of all is his _pride_ , which has blinded him to the truth: that Eden’s Gate is the only path to salvation.”

Joseph pauses, watches his audience carefully for a moment. Then, he extends one arm in Rook’s direction.

“But now the scales have fallen from his eyes. Though he was blind, now he sees. He sees the world as it is and understands what he must do. Isn’t that right?”

Rook’s jaw is tense, but he only hesitates for a moment.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and he almost manages to stop his voice cracking.

“Come here, child,” Joseph says, softly, and Rook rises. Even from where John’s sitting, he can see that Rook’s movements are too stiff, that his hands are trembling. He’s afraid, even though he has no reason to be.

Joseph steps forward, takes those shaking hands, and leads Rook down into the font. It’s not particularly deep, the water barely touching Joseph’s belt, but Joseph seems to have anticipated some kind of struggle: he’s forgone his jacket, rolling his shirt-sleeves up past his elbows, not bothering with the upper buttons.

“This is only the first step in your rebirth,” Joseph says solemnly. “After the Cleansing comes Confession, and after that, Atonement. But this is the most important step: without letting go of the sin that drags you down, you cannot move forward. You cannot rise to join the rest of us. You cannot enter the new Eden. It may be difficult, but I will see you where you belong. Do you trust me?”

There’s a long moment, where John fears that Rook will refuse Joseph’s generosity, but it passes. Rook swallows, and his words are a hoarse whisper.

“I do.”

Joseph nods, and guides Rook into the correct position, standing perpendicular to each other, Joseph’s right arm pressed against Rook’s back, while his left holds Rook’s crossed arms over his chest.

“Then be cleansed,” he says, tenderly, and he lowers Rook down.

There’s one moment, then two. Three, four, five. The only sound is Joseph’s hushed prayers, inaudible as they echo in the silence.

Baptisms don’t usually take this long.

Six seconds segues into seven, then eight.

A Cleansing is not quite a baptism, though. And Rook has _many_ sins that need to be scrubbed away.

Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

“Y’all ain’t gonna drown him, are you?” Nick Rye’s quivering voice breaks the silence, and the Chosen assigned to him shushes him. The damage is done, though, because Jess Black tries to get to her feet. Fortunately, her assigned Chosen manages to restrain her quickly. He’s less quick to restrain her mouth, though.

“Son of a bitch!” she shrieks. “The Father’s nothing but a _fucking_ socio—“

“Stop talking!” the Chosen hisses, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Can’t you see this is a good thing?”

“‘ _Good_ ’,” Pratt mutters, scowling at the pool. He looks like he wants to move, and John half-hopes he does. Wants to see Pratt beaten by the Chosen surrounding him. “What a fucking joke.”

Thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five.

There’s movement under the water— it’s sloshing about in the font, like Rook’s starting to panic under there. Even though there’s no need to.

A hand emerges from the water, and that’s when  Rook’s body is lifted from the water. He coughs out water, red-faced, gasping for breath, blindly scrabbling at the Father in a panicked attempt at steadying himself. The Father gazes down at Rook with dispassionate eyes. 

“You,” he proclaims, “are not clean yet.”

“What?” Rook chokes, but Joseph does not elaborate.

Back under the water Deputy Rook goes, writhing frantically. Joseph remains the same, his face cold and impassive.

“Don’t kill him!” Mary-May cries, and although John is loathe to admit it, he can understand why she’s afraid. 

At first glance it may _look_ as though there’s no love in this Cleansing, that Joseph is furious, but John knows better. Joseph is above such things as vengeance and cruelty. He’s only doing what is absolutely necessary to clean Deputy Rook’s filthy soul. And John knows first-hand how filthy it is, how stained and broken and how encrusted with sin it is. 

Rook’s hands frantically scrabble at Joseph’s arms, the water in the font splashing violently as he struggles. Joseph seems to be having trouble holding him down. Some of the other sinners start to shout, which just goes to show that they need to be cleansed just as much as their esteemed leader. Jeffries is praying, as though this _isn't_ the will of God. How disgustingly _prideful_ of him.

How long has it been? Thirty seconds? How long can an adult hold their breath?

It doesn’t matter. It’s fine, because Joseph, as God’s prophet, is always in the right. Everything is as it should be. There’s no need to worry. 

Nonetheless, John can’t stop the knot of anxiety in his stomach, the too-familiar panic coursing through his veins. 

Of course Joseph wouldn’t ever kill Rook, as Mary-May and the other sinners seem to fear, but— but John knows what drowning looks like, and if Rook’s dead he’ll never be redeemed, and if Joseph accidentally harms Rook all hell is going to break loose and— and—

And that’s a _lot_ of water splashing now, Joseph using his own body weight to pin Rook under the surface, and it’s got to be almost a whole minute now and—

“Joseph!” 

The word is hoarse, echoing in the otherwise silent room. One of the nearby Chosen— the one gagging Boshaw— glances over, for just a split-second before he remembers that John doesn’t exist and turns to face the Father again. 

John’s heartbeat spikes. He hadn’t meant to do that. Doubting the Father privately is a terrible thing. Doubting him in front of the sinners? Worse. But in front of the Father’s congregation? This might be his worst sin yet, which is certainly saying _something_. 

Joseph’s gone strangely still, his head half-turned to look not _quite_ in John’s direction, but _close_. Out of the corner of his eye, John can see a few confused faces in congregation, even Rook’s allies looking at John strangely. A rising murmur, whispers from those gathered, but he can’t quite make out their words. 

It’s hard to breathe. 

Then the long, tense moment is over. Joseph lifts Rook out of the water, with care this time, turning him so that he’s more easily able to cough water out of his lungs. Motions for the closest Chosen to come, take the Deputy from his hands. As Rook— still choking up mouthfuls of water, struggling to breathe— is dragged from the font and off to the side, Joseph steps gracefully out of the pool. 

“It is done,” he says, solemnly. He looks at the sinners, opens his arms wide in a metaphorical embrace. “Would you like to join your leader in the ranks of the saved?”

The Chosen are quick to free the sinners’ mouths, so that they can answer.

“Eat shit and die!” Jess Black screams, the most vocal in a chorus of mingled negatives “no”, “hell no”, “I don’t wanna die”. Her mouth is quickly re-covered, though she nearly manages to bite through the Chosen’s glove.

Joseph looks mildly disappointed. For a second he looks so human, all sad and sodden and exhausted. And then he is the Father again, impassive and serene. 

“I see,” he says, and then he addresses the rest of the flock, clearly unhappy at the blatant disrespect their prophet is receiving. “Then let us pray that the eyes of these sinners shall be opened too, and that they will partake in the New Eden with us.”

And then it’s over. The sinners are herded out, some struggling more than others, as the faithful pray. 

John bows his head, and hopes, fervently, that God does not consider him as much of a lost cause as Joseph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to start with John waking up, but it ended up not fitting properly into the theme of the chapter, so i changed it. sleepy, half-awake john will make an appearance later, I promise. This was hard to write, but I'm back on track now. Thank you for all your patience and support, I truly appreciate it!
> 
> if you want to keep up with my writing updates and suchlike, i am on tumblr as amistrio (personal blog) or peltonea (writing blog, updated infrequently). 
> 
> Now that the ACTUAL plot has kicked in, let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I realised that the uniform thing in the last chapter didn't make sense so I edited it. Please assume all 'sinners', rook included, are wearing the same clothes as they did to joseph's boss fight. also, i'm sick and have a huge headache at the time of writing so please bear with my mistakes OTL i'll correct them later

John bows his head and keeps praying. He ignores the way Deputy Rook coughs and wheezes in the corner. He keeps going even as the faithful slowly depart. He’s praying for forgiveness. He should not have spoken. Should not have doubted at all.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and he’s not sure if he’s saying it to God or Joseph or himself. Perhaps all three. Is there any mercy left for him? God, John hopes so.

“You did well,” Joseph’s voice comes, hushed, from the same place as the Deputy’s pitiful noises. “Jacob was right about you. You are strong. Fear not— that will not bar you from entering Eden with us. But you need to be broken To be rebuilt into something better. Something divine.”

It’s true, John thinks, and there’s a strange gnawing feeling in his stomach, almost painful in its intensity, and his heart stutters. It’s a little like horror or fear, but it isn’t either because Joseph is right. It must be hunger. It must be, John knows he hasn't eaten much as of late. That's all it is. Joseph is right, as he always is. Let the Cleansing be done quickly and painlessly, John prays— and he stops. That isn’t right. It can’t be either of those things. Pain is the point of Confession. A slow, beautiful agony that humbles and heals the soul.

“Do not worry,” Joseph tells Rook, still in those soft, hushed tones. “I am with you. I shall guide you down this path. You will be made whole, no matter the cost.”

There’s a pause, and Rook makes some strangled sound. Affirmation? A protest? John isn’t sure, but it seems to satisfy Joseph.

“Take care, Deputy,” Joseph says. “Get some rest. You’ll Confess tomorrow.”

Then Joseph’s footsteps come toward John, and John cannot help but bow his head further, pray ever more fervently as the Father passes, leaving nothing but the smell of Joseph’s soap in his wake.

It isn’t until John heard the chapel doors close, Joseph’s footsteps receding, that he dares to mutter ‘amen’ and raise his head. Just as he thought— everybody else has gone. Everybody save Rook, who’s sprawled on the floor, struggling to push himself to his knees. Even the Chosen have gone.

They’re probably the two most reviled people in the bunker, John thinks. For anybody else, Joseph would have personally ensured a towel, a change of clothes, perhaps some Bliss-infused tea. He would, at worst, have entrusted a lieutenant to take care of the newest member of their flock. He’d never have just left them cold and afraid and alone.

The Father may love all His children, but Joseph clearly does not feel the same way.

John can use this.

He stands, stretches his arms as he approaches Rook. Rook looks up at the sound of his footsteps, a sluggish, jerky movement.

“Let’s get you somewhere warm,” John says. He crouches, holds out an arm. After a long moment, where Rook looks at him and John can see the cogs slowly turning in his brain, Rook accepts. He misses John’s arm the first time he tries to grab it, but manages the second.

The lack of co-ordination is probably because Rook swallowed so much Bliss— before now he’s probably only breathed in fumes, and the unprocessed Bliss they’d dealt with in Faith’s Gate had been much less potent than the real thing. The laboured breathing and clammy skin, though, is definitely from the near-drowning. The best thing to do would be to get the Bliss residue off Rook, get him clean and dry and dressed in something warm, and get him to one of the doctors. The last thing John needs is for Rook to die from pneumonia, or something else entirely preventable.

It takes a few moments to get Rook on his feet, swaying unsteadily as he looks right through John with those awful Blissed-out eyes. Then they’re trudging along— Rook as though he can’t feel his own feet— out of the chapel and down the hall and up a couple steps until they get to the men’s main bathroom facilities. It’s a pretty standard-fare place, made up of three connected rooms— the first contains toilets, urinals, and sinks. The second is a general-purpose changing room, lockers lining the walls. The third room contains the showers: maybe twenty cubicles, a waterproof curtain instead of a door. John pushes Rook none-too-gently toward the closest cubicle and starts the water.

“You need to wash the Bliss off,” John says.

It takes a moment, but Rook nods, leaning heavily against the wall as he tries to toe off his boots and unbutton his shirt at the same time. The boots come off after a few moments, Rook nearly falling sideways. The shirt buttons stay resolutely in place, Rook’s fingers unable to grip properly. It’s pitiful. John steps forward, gently removes Rook’s clumsy fingers so that he can deftly unbutton the shirt.

“Do you remember when you did this for me?” John asks, keeping his eyes on Rook’s face with a herculean effort. He doesn’t look down, doesn’t drink in the sight of Rook’s golden skin or the way the wet cloth clings to every curve of his musculature. John is supposed to be better than that.

Rook blinks, slowly, and then he nods.

“Yeah,” he says, somehow managing to slur that.

“I never thanked you, did I?” John asks. Damn. Rook frowns, and then his expression slowly clears.

“No, you didn’t,” Rook says, after a long moment.

John nods. Now’s a good opportunity to rake in those brownie points.

“Well,” he says, and the last button pops free. “Thank you. Get cleaned up.”

Rook doesn’t argue, merely turns slowly and shuffles into the shower cubicle, barely having the presence of mind to close the curtain after him.

After a few moments, a damp bundle of clothing is unsteadily kicked out into the main room, and there’s the unmistakable sound of something solid underneath the shower spray. John doesn’t bother picking up the wet clothes. Someone else can do it later. Instead, he rifles through the changing room lockers and liberates a couple of sufficiently large-looking garments, and the nicest towel he can find— one of the late lieutenants owned something big and blue and fluffy. Such indulgences are Joseph’s teachings, of course, but it suits John’s purposes. There are a couple unopened bottles of water in the same locker, so John takes them. He hangs the towel and the clothes over walls of Rook’s cubicle, then heads out into the changing room again to look for shoes.

Rook’s boots are going to need to be dried out, so John puts them in one of the empty lockers— he makes a note of the number, so he can officially assign it later. After several minutes of searching, John manages to find a fairly new pair of canvas plimsolls that are the same size as Rook’s boots, and files the information away for future reference, and that’s about the time the shower stops.

It takes a couple minutes more before Rook emerges, looking a little drier and clearer-headed. At least this time he managed to dress himself. His coughing seems to have pretty much stopped, and his breathing sounds a little better— he definitely needs to see a doctor, though.

“My uniform…” Rook starts, and John cuts him off.

“Don’t worry about it,” John says. “Someone will take care of it soon enough.” He picks up one of the water bottles and holds it out: a small gesture of peace.“Here. You need to flush the Bliss out.”

Rook frowns, but he takes the water bottle and uncaps it, hesitating for only a few moments before he takes a sip.

“Thanks,” Rook mutters, and takes another slow sip.

“It seems to me that you’re in a difficult situation,” John says, and Rook’s eyes narrow. John pauses. He has to be careful with his words. Make sure that he can manipulate Rook into feeling what John wants, into doing what John wants. “I know full well you don’t actually _believe_ , despite your Cleansing, but you ought to know by now that Joseph isn’t as stupid as you sinners like to make him out to be. He’s very perceptive. He’ll see through you in no time.” 

Rook doesn’t say anything, just continues to silently glare at John through dark-ringed eyes, water bottle clutched so hard his knuckles are white. The shower seems to have helped him, though his eyes are still Blissed.

“Let me _assist_ you,” John says _._ “Let me show you what Joseph _wants_ to see from you. All you have to do is fool Joseph until it’s safe to leave the bunker. I can help you. I want to help you.”

 _“_ Why?” Rook asks. He pushes John’s hands away, and John doesn’t fight it. John just chuckles and shows his palms, a sign of peace.

“Because Joseph can be quite vindictive when the mood strikes,” John says. He’s... well, he’s lying a little. Joseph isn’t vindictive, he’s righteous. There’s a difference. But Rook doesn’t need to know that. He gestures to Rook, a ‘come-hither’ movement with his hands as he steps out of the bathroom and into the hall. “Come on— you need to see the doctor. Don’t want you catching pneumonia before you can be saved.”

Rook narrows his eyes, mouth tight like he’s swallowing something bitter he wants to voice. Still, John’s words have him hooked. He follows John closely, his movements a lot steadier than before.

“Joseph cannot touch you, not any more than he already has,” John continues. “His faith will not allow it. No, he must keep you alive and relatively well, no matter how despicable your actions. He can, however, touch your friends.”

“Didn’t answer my question, John,” Rook says, a warning tone in his voice.

“If you keep Joseph happy, your friends will be safe,” John says. “If you accept Joseph’s Word into your heart— or if you’re publicly seen to do that— Joseph will be happy. If Joseph is happy, I’m happy.”

“If Joseph’s happy, a lot of things change…” Rook’s Blissed gaze is thoughtful now. “Might stop pretending you’re dead.”

“You’re very clever,” John concedes, after a moment. He pauses, lets his jaw tense. Swallows. Good acting requires patience. Admitting this one, singular fault and showing vulnerability is the perfect way to manipulate a man like Rook. Just like Rachel, John can put on a damned good show.

“Try to be,” Rook says, and the rest of the three-minute walk to the clinic is in silence. The door is open when they get there, the nurse on duty looking up for a moment, staring at John and Rook until she remembers that she’s not allowed to act as though John exists and quickly gazes down again.

John pauses outside the door, waits for a couple seconds longer than he usually would before he speaks again. Makes sure his words are a little softer, a little less sure than usual.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he says, and deliberately looks away, to the floor. “It was…”

John cuts himself off, counts to three in his head, and looks up at Rook, whose mouth is pressed into a concerned line, his forehead a little furrowed. John flashes him a carefully-calculated, sad little smile, and steps away. One, two…

“I’ll see you later, Deputy,” John says, and he lets his voice tremble oh-so-slightly. “Take care of yourself.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves the Deputy just outside the clinic doors. It’s a carefully-calculated plot to force Rook to care, because John needs someone on his side. Someone who’ll provide and protect him out of a misguided sense of obligation. All John has to do is remain just helpful enough for just long enough, showing just a little vulnerability now and again.

It’s a simple plan.

What could possibly go wrong?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m a dumb bitch who forgot that john last ate like two full days ago, in-story time. so i went back and changed that in the other chapters, because this one makes a lot less sense otherwise. 
> 
> this chapter is pretty short, but it's important in the long run

John ducks into the male sinner’s dormitory, clutching a stack of papers neatly clipped into bundles. Each bundle contains a couple forms: medical information, work experience and skills, etcetera, plus several sheets of information intended to act as an orientation. What each sinner is entitled to in terms of food, personal belongings, and spare time. Rough schedules, basic behavioural rules and the punishments that can be given for non-compliance. Information on requisitioning spare clothes, time in the coupling rooms, time off work or training, and so forth. Everything John could think of, and more. Honestly, he’s pretty proud of his handiwork.

Nobody’s in the dorm— they’ve presumably been dragged to breakfast, with everybody else, or (as John suspects might be the case for one Ms Black in particular) down to the workrooms for correction. John leaves the papers on the small wooden table that’s appeared in the middle of the room, with a small pile of pencils and a sticky note politely explaining what the sinners need to do and why, and leaves.

John heads to the cafeteria next, guided by the dull cramping in his stomach, the faint nausea that accompanies excessive hunger. He’s not sure the last time he ate— he’d been too busy last night, and… hm. Did he eat breakfast yesterday? Or was it just coffee? Either way, he’s starting to feel a little light-headed, his limbs no longer entirely attached to the rest of him.

The cafeteria is almost full— Joseph is nowhere to be seen, but pretty much everybody else is here, eating. The sinners have been seated at their own table, surrounded by Chosen. Not all of them are present— Lindsay and Black are gone, as John suspected, and Rook is obviously in the clinic.

John grabs a tray and a bowl and joins the line. When he’s eaten, he’ll head back to his bedroom to nap. Then he can head over to the sinner’s dorms, get their paperwork (surely they only need a few minutes to finish it, right? Two or three hours should be plenty of time) and start allocating schedule slots, ensuring that the necessary information reaches the correct people. He’ll leave his name and signature off the paperwork, just to be sure it won’t be ignored.

It isn’t until he actually reaches the front of the line, and the serving lady looks through him, that John realises his mistake.

John knows this woman well— she’s a sweet, middle-aged, motherly woman. Paula. She’d actually served as his housekeeper for a while, when they’d first come to Hope County. The mother of two sons who’d strayed too far from righteousness, she’d always been eager to pamper John as though he were her own boy. Always had a cup of coffee ready to set at his elbow while he worked, usually accompanied by a delicious, home-made pastry with too many calories and too much sweetness. Always kept his home spotlessly clean. Always had a kind word and a motherly smile for him, so unlike either of his actual mothers.

John had been terribly sad when Paula had gone to live at the compound, choosing to serve Joseph instead of him. But he hadn’t been surprised— it’s just how things are. Nobody ever stays with John. And Joseph is so much better, anyway. He’s divine. John can’t blame them for clamouring to be near the Father.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he says, when she reaches around him, awkwardly taking the bowl from the person behind John. “Come on, Paula, it’s me.”

Paula doesn’t look at John, doesn’t give any indication that she heard him. That he spoke at all. That he exists.

The unease that’s been settling heavy in John's veins ignites into rage, his blood boiling with fury. He’s hungry, damn it! Exhausted! He doesn’t deserve this stupid, childish treatment!

Which is why he ends up throwing the empty bowl down, the metal clanging loudly on the floor, stopping the quiet murmur of conversation in the room. He turns to face the woman behind him and flips her tray out of her hands with an angry flick of his wrists, oatmeal flying through the air in an impressively gluey arc, splattering on the floor with a disgusting, wet noise.

“Fucking asshole,” Pratt’s voice carries through the silence. Hudson laughs, and it sounds bitter. More voices, hushed, and John ignores them, leaving the room as quickly as his unsteady legs will carry him.

He’ll come back later, John thinks, gritting his teeth. He’s got some candy, some snacks stashed away in his office, along with his ‘oregano’. He just needs something to keep his blood sugar up for now..

It’s fine.

Everything is fine.

It’s all under control. He’ll eat properly a little later. But for now—

John’s train of thought comes to a halt when he spots Joseph’s familiar figure through the little window of his office. Damn it, he doesn’t want to deal with that. Not right now.

Sleep first, John decides. Food later. It’s fine. It's all fine.

So he ends up throwing himself onto his bunk, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, not thinking, not thinking, not thinking about anything at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait! I had a lot of work to do, so my usual writing time was quite drastically cut. But I have a small announcement to make, too. You may have seen this on tumblr but I'l write it here too:
> 
> The increasingly unwelcoming, dismissive and cliquey nature of fandom in general (not just Far Cry, pretty much every fandom has these same problems) has meant that I'm no longer very motivated to create content. 
> 
> I'll still be updating my fics, of course-- I want to finish Deputy Matt's stories, at the very least. I'll still work on my other WIPS and hopefully upload some more soon! But rather than the weekly updates I aim for (and often fail at, sorry guys), I may only be able to update each story once or twice a month. In the new year, most of my attention will be directed to my original works. I hope you understand. It wasn't an easy decision to make, but I think it's what's best for me.
> 
> All that being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you for sticking with me this far. It really does mean a lot that there's some people out there who like what I'm writing.

John wakes up, disorientated and nauseous at first. He washes his face, cleans his teeth, and checks the clock. A little past ten. Better, but not by much.

There’s food in the kitchens. There’s also a small army of middle-aged ladies, including Paula, who alternate between steadfastly ignoring John as they work on preserving the last of the fresh produce— canning and salting and pickling— and tidying away the items he’s about to use the moment he turns his back, or turning off the stove he’s using to boil water for his coffee whenever he’s not looking.

“Be more careful!” one woman says, scolding the others a little too loudly, barely hiding a grin on her smug face. “We can’t afford to waste anything!”

John rolls his eyes, and dumps his used grinds into the trash. Spends thirty seconds rinsing off his personal filter (a small, good-quality French press) before gathering his food and coffee. He found a couple nice-looking apples in the walk-in fridge, the glossy red kind that feel heavy in his hands. There was enough meat and bread left over from yesterday’s meals to make a passable sandwich, and he liberated some tomatoes and diced carrots that were probably supposed to go in tonight’s stew. It’s hardly the kind of decadent meal he’s used to, but he can’t afford to be picky. And it’s better than the prison food was, at least.

The sinners aren’t in the dormitory when John stops by. Well, that’s a lie. There’s Pratt, and Nick Rye, and a single Chosen— presumably to make sure they stay out of trouble. Pratt’s talking to the Chosen, in quiet, hushed tones. Nick’s laying on one of the bunks, facing the wall. Probably asleep.

John takes another sip of coffee (heaven) and sets his cup down on the table. He checks the papers he’d left on the table, and scowls.

Blank, all of them. Not even the names have been filled in.

“You didn’t complete the forms,” John says, cold fury settling in his stomach. “I asked you to do _one_ thing.”

Pratt doesn’t even bother to look at John, just gives a low chuckle at whatever the Chosen said to him, shaking his head. Then he continues speaking, so quiet John can hardly make out the words.

“That so? Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I shoulda seen it coming,” the Chosen adds, equally softly. “But I didn’t, and that’s on me. Still, the party went off without a hitch. I’m tellin’ you, Lisa was over the moon when she saw the ring.”

“Where are the others?” John demands, cutting over whatever Pratt says in reply.

“—wedding,” the Chosen replies, looking intently at Pratt. “All worth it in the end. You get it, right?”

“Never been that lucky myself, but I’m glad things worked out for you,” is the reply.

John rolls his eyes.

“I asked you a question!” he snaps. “Don’t ignore me!”

Irritatingly enough, they do. John grits his teeth, grips the back of one of the chairs— see how easily they ignore John with a fucking concussion, and—

“They went out,” Nick croaks.

Out? Not _outside_ , surely?

“What?”

Nick grunts, pushes himself into a sitting position. Rubs his tear-stained, swollen eyes. When he speaks, he doesn’t look directly at John, and his voice is all nasal.

“They’re not here,” Nick clarifies, as though John can’t see that. “The guy in charge, now you’re… whatever you are. He came by, said ain’t nobody gotta fill in your paperwork, and he took everybody out to get them set up wherever they’re supposed to be.”

“The hell are you doing here, then?” John demands. 

Nick is silent for a moment. Not the irritating kind of silence that means John’s being ignored, but the awkward kind that means Nick’s searching for something to say. 

“I’m in engineering,” Nick says. “Fixin’ things. Mechanical shit. Ain’t nothin’ needin’ fixin’ just yet. Sharky’s gonna tell me what’s what when he gets back.”

So that means they’ve left Nick alone, an attempt to give him some space while he’s grieving. It’s surprisingly thoughtful, but ultimately pointless.

John doesn’t say anything for a moment. 

On one hand if the lieutenant in charge— and John isn’t entirely sure who that is, but he’ll find out— has to do all the work that was assigned for John, that’s one less thing John needs to worry about. He can step in and fix a few things when needed, but otherwise doesn’t need to worry. In theory, that’s a good thing, because that’s a lot of work and he needs to focus on turning Rook and his allies to the light, to the glory of the Father. It gives him more time to work on his magnum opus: the law books that will, along with Joseph’s teachings and holy words, become the foundation of New Eden— assuming, of course, that Joseph sees fit to forgive him by the time the books are finished. 

On the other hand, it’s another unwelcome reminder of exactly how far John has fallen. Exactly how angry Joseph is. And to a certain extent, it makes things more difficult for John— how can he prove his loyalty to the Father when he has no duties to perform above and beyond all reasonable expectation? In the past, John’s all-nighters and relentless devotion to Eden’s Gate always drew a grateful smile from Joseph, along with a gentle chastisement: “you should take better care of yourself”. And now what is there? 

He needs time to think. 

“I see,” John says. “When you see Rook, tell him to come to my office. I need to speak to him.”

Nick’s expression twists into one of disgust, and he flops down again, wordlessly. 

“It’s _important_ ,” John insists, and he reaches forward, prodding at Nick’s shoulderblade. “You want him to survive the Confession, don’t you? He needs to talk to me. I’ll be in my office after dinner.”

Nick makes a noise, something between a grunt and actual vocalisation. 

“Tell. Him.” John prods harder. 

“Fine,” Nick shifts, swatting John’s hand away, glaring at him. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Someone else to make miserable?”

“I don’t know,” John spits, and barely manages to stop himself continuing with ‘don’t you have more moping to do?’. He can’t afford to make even worse enemies, not now.He settles for the lamer, but significantly less dangerous response of“is it any of your business?”

Nick doesn’t respond, so John glares one final time at Pratt and the Chosen, still conversing like John isn’t even here, and picks up his coffee. He leaves the papers where they are. Doesn’t look like he’ll be needing them. He strides back to his office, carefully balancing the plate so his apples don’t fall. He ignores the lack of salutations from the few faithful he walks past on his way. He doesn’t need them. 

Once he’s back in the office,John sets his wares down and takes a seat at his desk. He takes a bite from his sandwich, searching through his drawers. He needs to formulate a plan. 

John tosses a couple ballpoint pens on the desk, digs out an old pocket-sized notepad he bought for accounting but never ended up actually using, and writes TO DO at the top of the first page. 

Okay, first and most obviously, he has to convert Rook, and ideally at least some of the others. Whitehorse or Jeffries might be a good target to start with— well-respected authority figures who aren’t entirely hostile to John. The others are likely to follow if he can get those three drawn into the true faith. He can do that. It’ll take time, but it won’t be difficult. 

WELCOME SINNERS INTO NEW EDEN, John writes. Except for Pratt. He can die for all John cares. Asshole. And Hudson is a hard ‘maybe’, if John can get her soul clean. 

What else does Joseph want to see from John? 

ABSTAIN FROM SIN, John adds. He’s been too lenient with himself for too long. He needs to be stricter. No more lust, only love. As soon as Joseph accepts him, he’ll marry Holly or some other suitable partner. No more pride, only humility. He can’t keep arguing, even when he’s right— if he’s seen to really consider the sinners and his underlings’ views, he’ll be much better off. No more greed, only simplicity. His love of silk shirts and shiny, expensive watches isn’t sustainable any more. 

CELEBRATE THE JOY OF A SIMPLE LIFE, is what John eventually adds. Joseph made no secret of hating John’s designer clothes and his penchant for French champagne. And it isn’t like there’s going to be an infinite supply of John’s favourite things in the New Eden. His stocks of coffee and alcohol and grooming products will eventually run out. Better to make a start now, really show that he’s a better person. (And yes, that bullet point is technically part of the previous one, but it’s one of the biggest changes he needs to make. A serious outward effort that will convince Joseph that John is worth saving. He can’t afford to forget it.)

The final point is more difficult. He needs something concrete to do every day. He no longer has to run the bunker (a blessing and a curse), but he needs to do something else, instead— he can’t bask in his grief, like Nick, even though he’s lost so much more. John’s lost everything: his life, his brothers (and false sister), his very identity. Nick doesn’t have to worry about appearing slothful, John scowls. 

WORK TIRELESSLY FOR THE GOOD OF OTHERS. John only has some very vague ideas about what that means. 

Doing his own laundry is probably a good start, he thinks. If the faithful won’t even serve John food, they certainly won’t wash his clothes for hi. But it’s also probably a bad idea to continue wearing his usual suits. If he’s trying to be humble, he should probably wear the same ratty garments as the lowest of their community— the baggy white-and-red tunics issued to each believer. Even if the Chosen or the lieutenant’s uniforms are much nicer and better-made, that’d probably show a level of pride that Joseph would deem obscene, would only damage John’s attempts at garnering forgiveness. 

What else can he do? Coming to the chapel for each service is a good idea, but that doesn’t really… unless he were to serve his brothers and sisters by cleaning the chapel…? Yes, that’s a good idea. It’s important work, and John doesn’t remember making a rota for it. And even if there is one, there’s plenty of work to be done. How hard can sweeping and dusting be? The maids used to do it every day. 

There’s sure to be other things, too. He can work to create even more beautiful artwork to lift the spirits of the faithful— although they all know that they must wait for seven years, it’ll be difficult. Mankind was made to see the sun. To breathe fresh air. Anything that’ll make the faithful happier is sure to be welcomed. 

John will need to re-organise and thoroughly clean his art studio. God knows what Rook and the others did to it during their pointless little rescue mission. And he’ll need to check the wrapped corpses. Dead bodies have a tendency to bloat, even semi-mummified ones. He’s fairly sure the vinyl will hold, but… there’s a lot of experimentation involved with John’s current art projects. 

John tucks the notebook into his pocket, and finishes eating his meal. He’s not very hungry, his stomach uncomfortably full when the last piece of bread disappeared. But he needs to eat— he doesn’t know when he’ll get another chance. Probably not until after speaking with Rook. 

John leaves the empty mug and the apple cores on his plate, and heads down to the studio just after the lunch bell rings.

As John had predicted, the studio is a mess. There’s broken glass on the floor, John’s tools strewn across the room, paint and candle wax, blood and flowers, all mixed and mingled and dried on the walls and floor. There’s blasphemous grafitti drawn on every available surface: THE FATHER LIES. John’s decorated corpses torn from their hooks and left on the floor. 

John sighs. It’s a lot of work. He double-checks that his cabinets and drawers haven’t been disturbed. There’s one drawer, which had contained an emergency pistol and some ammo, now empty. But more or less everything else is as he remembers, including John’s snack stash for those late nights. There’s a couple bags of barbecue chips, and a few packs of various candies— including a box of Voges truffles he’d planned to share with Holly, maybe for foreplay on a particularly lonely night. Maybe he’ll just eat them himself, later. He checks the alcohol, just in case: two high-class whiskeys, and several bottles of various wines, mostly from France and Spain. Exactly as he recalls. 

John moves on, tidying away that which can be salvaged. He hangs his tools on their respective racks, puts his papers into their respective drawers. His paint-tins and sprays go on their shelves. Anything broken gets tossed in the corner— he’ll gather them and put them in the waste disposal rooms later— they’ll be able to reforge the metal later, but for now the wood and plastic parts could probably be incinerated. 

John sweeps up what he can, makes a mental note to find a hoe or something he can scrape the paint and wax off the floor with. He’ll need something to dissolve the paint on the walls, probably a scrubbing brush and some bleach later. And the corpses… he’ll need to add more wrapping on one or two, since the vinyl is starting to bulge and he’s not sure if the coverings were damaged. 

Still, that’s a job for tomorrow. 

John does what he can, stripping the sweat-and-blood soiled sheets from the cot Hudson had been cuffed to, and shoves those in the laundry room when the dinner bell rings and he heads back to his office.

John doesn’t have to wait long for Rook to show up. John’s scarcely had enough time to open an Evian and gulp a few mouthfuls of water before there’s a hesitant knock at the door. 

When John answers, Deputy Rook is standing there, looking far better than he did earlier. He's holding a bowl of stew, a spoon stuck into the gravy. 

"Nick said you wanted to see me," Rook says, and John ushers him in. Rook holds out the bowl. “Thought you might be hungry."

A peace offering? Thanks? John’s not sure, but he’ll take whatever he can get at this point. 

“Thank you,” John says, and he relishes how warm and heavy the bowl is in his hands. God, it smells good. John’s tentative mouthful confirms it: yes, it _tastes_ good, too. “Shouldn’t you be in the cafeteria? Your food is going to get cold.”

“I’m not hungry,” Rook says, shaking his head. 

“You didn’t eat breakfast,” John says, and he takes another spoonful of stew. “You need to eat.” 

Rook looks deeply uncomfortable, shifting his weight, not looking at John. 

“So do you,” he says.

John swallows his mouthful, and pokes at the bowl. That’s an odd thing for Rook to say. Unless…

“Is this yours?” he demands. 

“I said I’m not feeling hungry,” Rook says, and he glances up, meets John’s eyes for a half-second, then looks away. John grabs Rook’s arm, pushes the bowl into his hand.

“I’m not taking your food,” he says. 

“Look, it’s just going to go to waste,” Rook insists, not taking the bowl. “I figured I’d save you the trouble of— of skulking around or whatever.”

That’s what sends John over the edge. Rook’s proclamation that he’s somehow helping John, being an idiot for his benefit. 

“Don’t you dare,” John snarls. “Don’t you dare pity me.”

“I’m not—“

“You _are!_ ” John seethes, “I don’t need your bleeding heart or your sycophantic self-sacrifice, you—“ 

That’s when Rook finally takes the bowl, plucking the spoon from John’s white-knuckled fist.

“Fine!” Rook says, interrupting John. He takes a hurried mouthful, gravy dripping from the spoon onto his collar, struggles to speak with a full mouth. “Fine, I’ll eat too. That make you feel any better?” He swallows wiping his mouth. “Nobody’s sacrificing anything, okay?”

John grits his teeth, and forces himself to take a deep breath. He’s supposed to be leading Rook to the light, not fighting with him. 

“Okay,” John says, even though his heart is still racing with rage, his fists still clenched so tight his knuckles ache. 

“I’m just- I'm really not feeling that hungry is all,” Rook explains, and he takes another bite, chewing and swallowing quickly. “I mean, I keep thinking about tomorrow, and I just feel sick. This morning was bad enough and I just—“ Rook stuffs his mouth again, shakes his head. Swallows. Pauses. Sets the bowl down on the desk. “I’m scared.”

Though John’s still rightfully angry, he knows an opportunity when he sees one. So he reaches out, puts a hand on Rook’s shoulder, and speaks softly. 

“You don’t need to be afraid,” John replies. “I’m going to be there with you, making sure that everything is as it should be.”

Rook doesn’t look convinced, so John leans in a little, looks him right in those black-brown eyes. 

“Confession is not a punishment,” John says. “It is simply another way to cleanse your soul. Here— I’ll talk you through it. Would that help?”

“I- I guess so,” Rook says, uncertainly, and it’s surprisingly easy to push Rook down into the office chair, drawing out a sheet of graph paper and a marker pen to explain the process John always likes to use, and the reasons why. John keeps his hand on Rook’s shoulder, rubbing comforting circles with his thumb. 

“I’ll be there the whole time,” John promises, in his most honeyed tones. “I’ll make sure Joseph does only what’s necessary. Do you trust me?”

There’s a pause, and after about fifteen seconds too long, Rook finally nods. 

“Yes,” he croaks, utterly unconvincingly. 

John sighs. Well, it’s a start, at least. That Rook feels amicable enough toward John to lie out of politeness.

“Good,” he replies. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, i finally got around to finishing the first chapter! As per the usual, my update schedule will be, at best, hectic. Be prepared for a very random update schedule.


End file.
